Chapter 2: Grave Mistake
Maribel had survived cursed cupcakes, animate cauldron fights, and a telepathic squirrel infestation during Midwinter Week. But nothing—and she meant nothing—could have prepared her for cleaning the Vaults.
"Why does a preservation spell need goat teeth?" she muttered, holding a jar of vaguely glowing molars. "Is that a thing? Am I supposed to alphabetize these by animal or by aggression level?"
"Neither," Lucien said without looking up. "They're categorized by necromantic potential. You'll find the labeling system in the Codex of Dubious Remains, third shelf, under Runes That Shouldn't Talk."
Maribel frowned. "This place is like a museum curated by mad scientists and haunted librarians."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Lucien replied, flicking his wrist to silence a screeching skull that had begun chanting a sea shanty in Infernal.
She made a face. "I think that skull just cursed my grandmother."
Lucien didn't even blink. "She'll be fine. Unless she's allergic to shadow peaches."
Maribel opened her mouth to ask what a shadow peach was but thought better of it.
Instead, she busied herself with organizing a tray of enchanted rings, each one labeled with warnings like Might Cause Temporal Loop and Do Not Wear Around Unicorns. As she leaned in to inspect a cracked opal pendant, her finger brushed its center.
Immediately, the pendant flared with a sharp blue light.
Maribel jerked back. "Oops."
Lucien turned so fast his cloak billowed like an ominous thundercloud. "What did you touch?"
She held up her hands. "Nothing! Well... a little. Maybe something jewel-ish. But it looked sad."
"Sad? It's a cursed soulstone, not a puppy!"
The pendant on the table pulsed, and a wave of magic burst outward like a ripple through the air. For a moment, the entire Vault seemed to go still. Even the whispering jars and hissing scrolls paused.
Then—crack!
A sharp pain stabbed through Maribel's chest.
She gasped, staggering back, her vision shimmering. Something invisible tugged at her sternum—like a thread pulling tight. Across the room, Lucien winced, clutching his own chest.
"What... the heck... was that?" she panted.
Lucien's eyes widened.
"Oh, no."
"Oh no what?" Maribel said, voice rising. "Did I touch the apocalypse pendant? Is that what this is? Are we about to explode?"
Worse than exploding, Lucien thought grimly.
"You triggered a soul tether," he said. "That pendant was a binding relic. Designed for ancient necromancers to permanently link themselves to a vessel."
Maribel blinked. "Wait. You mean... I'm your vessel now?"
Lucien looked vaguely nauseous. "No. I'm yours."
There was a pause.
Then Maribel laughed—too loud, too long, and definitely too nervous. "This is a joke, right? Like... April Fools, but arcane?"
Lucien gave her a look colder than an ice elemental's ex-boyfriend. "This is very real. And very problematic."
A faint glow shimmered between them now—barely visible, like an invisible thread of starlight stretching from her sternum to his. Every time either moved, the line tugged slightly, like an unseen leash connecting their souls.
"Oh gods," she muttered. "I soul-bonded myself to a lich. I'm going to be expelled. Or possessed. Or turned into a sentient broom."
Lucien paced the room like a man trying to out-walk a curse. "We have to tell the Council."
Maribel blanched. "Can't we just... not? Maybe lie low and pretend we're emotionally co-dependent?"
"I'm undead. I don't do 'emotions.'"
"You just winced when I sneezed!"
"That wasn't emotion," he snapped. "That was a tether feedback loop!"
She stared at him.
He stared back.
And then, unfortunately, they both sneezed—at the same time.
Reporting the incident to the Council went as well as one might expect when an apprentice enchantress walks in holding hands (involuntarily, of course) with a lich lord.
"It was a total accident!" Maribel blurted as Chancellor Grimblebane rubbed her temples. "One second I was organizing haunted jewelry, the next I'm part of the world's least romantic tethering spell!"
Lucien looked like he'd rather be anywhere else—buried alive, sealed in a coffin, or stuck at a poetry reading for vampires.
"This sort of soul entanglement is forbidden," said Professor Stonetuft, monocle flashing dangerously. "Especially between the living and the... formerly living."
"I prefer the term 'post-living,'" Lucien muttered.
"You prefer it?" Maribel snapped. "You've done this before?!"
"No. That's the point. I don't form bonds."
"Well, congratulations. You've got one now. With a girl who still uses glitter in her spellcraft!"
Grimblebane raised a hand. "Enough. The bond is unstable and may become dangerous—emotionally or otherwise. Until a reversal spell can be found, you are both ordered to remain within thirty feet of each other at all times."
"What?!" they both shouted.
"Twenty-nine feet is fine," Grimblebane said dryly. "But thirty-one could tear reality in half. We'll be monitoring."
Maribel groaned. "I can't even go to the loo without a lich escort now?"
Lucien sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose again. "This is going to be a nightmare."
"No," Maribel muttered. "This is going to be hell."
They walked out of the chamber tethered, frustrated, and already halfway into their next argument.
The magical bond between them shimmered faintly—unnoticed by them both, but not by the Council.
Behind them, Professor Stonetuft leaned toward Grimblebane and whispered, "You know this ends in flames."
Grimblebane smiled faintly. "Yes. But sometimes, fire is the only way to forge something indestructible."